eternal fource of paftoral fentiment, and however various it may be in its nature, all its changes and intricacies muft furely be at length explored, after it has in for many ages and countries exercised the utmoft abilities of human genius.

NOTHING therefore remains to produce novelty, but a variation of circumstances, whether relating to the fubjects of the paffion, or the accompanying scenery. The pastoral fong formed upon the ballad model, is capable of being made the most pleafing piece of the paftoral kind. The fimplicity of language gives it an air of nature and reality, though the fictitious character be entirely kept up; and throwing the fubject into a little tale, gives an opportunity of novelty in defcription from the variety of incidents. When the story has a tender and mournful turn, the ballad fimplicity has a peculiarly happy efC 4 fect.

fect. Perhaps the English alone, of all the moderns, have known how to unite the most perfect fimplicity with real elegance and poetical expreffion; and it is to be hoped we shall never want tafte to relish the beauties of this kind that we are poffeffed of. The little collection of ballads and pastoral fongs here offered, contains fome of the sweetest flowers of English poetry.

BAL

BALLAD S

AND

PASTORAL SONGS.

T was a friar of orders gray,

It

Walk'd forth to tell his beads;

And he met with a lady fair,

Clad in a pilgrim's weeds,

Now

*IN the Reliques of antient English poetry Dr. Percy gives us the following ballad, as formed upon a number of detached fragments of antient compofition, which he has attempted to fill up and throw into a little connected tale. Though his modefty has induced him to place it among his antique remains, I think it but juftice to him and to my own collection to place it here as a very judicious and beautiful imitation of the atnient ballad; for certainly he has the best right to it, fince the merit of the story is all his own, and the difficulty of interweaving the few antient stanzas into it, and suiting his own language to them with fuch judgment, was greater than that of producing an en tirely new piece.

Now Chrift thee fave, thou reverend friar,

I pray thee tell to me,

If ever at yon holy shrine

My true love thou did'st see.

And how fhould I know your true love

From many another one?

O by his cockle hat and staff,
And by his fandal fhoon.

But chiefly by his face and mien,
That were fo fair to view;
His flaxen locks that fweetly curl'd,
And eyne of lovely blue.

O lady he's dead and gone!
Lady he's dead and gone!
And at his head a green grass turf,
And at his heels a stone.

Within these holy cloysters long
He languifh'd, and he died,
Lamenting of a lady's love,
And 'plaining of her pride.

Here

Here bore him barefac'd on his bier
Six proper youths and tall,

And many a tear bedew'd his grave
Within yon kirk-yard wall.

And art thou dead, thou gentle youth!
And art thou dead and gone!

And did't thou die for love of me!
Break, cruel heart of ftone!

O weep not, lady, weep not fo;
Some ghoftly comfort feek:
Let not vain forrow rive thy heart,
Nor tears bedew thy cheek.

O do not, do not, holy friar,
My forrow now reprove;
For I have loft the sweetest youth,
That e'er won Lady's love.

And now, alas! for thy fad lofs
I'll evermore weep and figh;

For thee I only wish'd to live,

For thee I wish to die.

Weep